Cold Stone & Ivy Book 2: The Crown Prince (The Empire of Steam)

by H. Leighton Dickson

  “On our brother Rudolf,” said Valerie.

  “On Rudolf.”

  “You will put his head, his heart and his body back together,” said Gisela.

  Valerie stepped forward, stroked his chin.

  “Then your brother,” she said. “Will bring him back to life.”

  ***

  The carriage was not fancy, but she was happy to be rattling her way to the palais of Franz Salvator. She desperately needed Christien or Sebastien or even Franz himself –someone who spoke English and read German. The letters were crucial, and currently, scattered all over both seats of the cab.

  She chewed her bottom lip as she studied the names and return addresses, looking for connections, praying for a clue. They were all written by one hand, sent by one person and her heart thudded at the sight.

  Wales.

  There could be no ‘Wales’ other than Edward, Prince of Wales, certainly not in a secret Austrian letterbox. According to Valerie, they had met at a racetrack. She had asked Marie Larisch if he had been her patron and the silence had been telling. She cursed to herself, wishing now that she had taken those letters from Rudolf’s desk, despite the threat of being shot.

  Her eyes were strained as they scanned for words she could understand. Baltazzi and Victoria, Rudolf and Wilhelm but there was another word that kept leaping out, a German word that she knew she’d heard before. Archelicht. She spoke it aloud and rolled it off her tongue, casting her mind back in an effort to remember when she had heard it and what it had meant.

  Archelicht.

  Years ago, when she had taught Davis his spelling lists, she remembered the similarity of some English words to German ones, others to Latin ones. Sebastien spoke Latin, had spoken Latin in the gorse when he’d heard the shot and drew eagles in the snow. He had said a word then, first in English then, she realized, in German. He had said Arclight and then, Archelicht.

  She looked down at the letters, steadied her nerve as a theory began to take shape in her mind. It was an unpleasant theory but there were already two bodies to count for it and there was not much worse than that.

  The cab rattled to a halt and she looked out the window, realizing that she was not at the palais of Franz Salvator, but what looked like a rather grand hotel.

  The door swung open, held by a mustachioed soldier in tartan and tan. He looked like a major in Victoria’s Royal Guards.

  “Good mornin’, Miss Vetsera,” he said, his accent undeniably Scots. “His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, is expectin’ you.”

  ***

  “Well,” said Penny as she gazed around her room at the Vienna Grand. “I suppose it will have to do.”

  “What’s wrong, dear Penny?” asked Alexandre Gavriel St. Jacques Lord Durand as he directed the baggage-carrying automaton to the bedroom. “Is the room not to your satisfaction? Why, the cream of European aristocracy stay here when in Vienna. I should have thought it right up your proverbial alley.”

  “There is nothing proverbial about an alley,” she snorted. “And the room itself is adequate. Although I do prefer the intimacy of the Sacher, but that is simply a quirk of my nature.”

  “So, if it’s not the room, what is it?”

  He slipped the porter a spring. Automatons loved springs. It shewed they were always ready to serve, and nothing made a ‘bot happier than service. It bowed and wheeled from the room. He closed the door behind it.

  “You presume, sir,” said Penny. “Once again, there is only one bed.”

  “I do presume, Penny,” said Lord Durand and he turned, crossing the floor towards her, becoming the rogue Alexander Dunn with every step. “But look, there is this lovely settee…”

  “Too short.”

  “And this charming Chesterfield sofa.”

  “Too soft.”

  “And of course, there is that marvelous bear-skin rug.”

  He was almost upon her now, standing so close that she could feel the heat from his body. She raised her chin and met his eyes, hers filled with defiance, his with mischief.

  “I am not a colonial, sir. I could never sleep on a rug that was once a living creature.”

  “I meant for me, Penny. And besides,” he raised a hand to smooth a lock of curls from her forehead. “Who said we will be sleeping a wink tonight?”

  Her heart was racing and she suddenly noticed his lips. Damnation, but they were smirking in a most infuriating and fetching way. She arched a brow.

  “And what do you propose we do, sir? It is well past ten and all the reputable restaurants will be closed. And I for one will not set foot into one of your seedy burgundy bars or jazz clubs.”

  “Oh, I have plans for you, my dear Penny,” he breathed and he leaned in closer. He smelled of brandy and expensive linen. “But you may need to remove some of your finer clothes.”

  “Oh?” she said, and she swallowed as his fingers ran along her neckline, played with the laces of her corset. “And why ever would I need to do that?”

  “To fit into the dumbwaiter, of course. It’s rather a tight squeeze.”

  “Dumb waiter?” For some reason, she found herself rising on tiptoe to almost meet his lips. “Tight squeeze?”

  “It’s the best way to sneak into the Crown Prince’s apartment.”

  She frowned. He grinned.

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? That’s why we’re here. We’re breaking into Crown Prince Maximilian’s rooms. I have information leading me to believe that he has the Star of Morocco.”

  “Jolly good,” she said. “That will be the only squeeze I’ll be allowing tonight.”

  “Well, there’s always tomorrow.”

  And he turned away to attend the steamtrunks and she sank to her heels, cursing the maddening rush of her heart and wondering why she was just the tiniest bit disappointed.

  Chapter 21

  Of Dangerous Men, Dangerous Women and the

  Dangerous Games that Keep Them Playing

  It was called simply the ‘Grand Vienna Hotel’, and Ivy waited in a salon that was larger than her entire house in Stepney. She could hear voices through the walls, all speaking German. Her eyes flicked to the windows but they were sealed and therefore, a repeat of the Vetsera incident was unlikely. Still, while everything inside her wanted to bolt, she would not. She was so close to answers, all of which could be compromised by one impulsive act. And she was a rather impulsive girl.

  And so she sat in a chair under a crewel-papered wall, hugging the letters wrapped in twine, waiting for Edward, Prince of Wales or a firing squad. Either one and for the very first time in her life, she wasn’t certain if she cared.

  “Wo ist das Bier?” came a voice from the door at the far end of the room. “Hier?”

  She rose to her feet as a man staggered in, wearing a uniform of slate blue with more medals than a military parade. He was fair-haired and fox-like with a very unique moustache. Sharply-shaved, it arched up along his cheeks in the shape of a large W. Because of that moustache, she knew immediately who he was and her heart pounded in her chest. It was his signature, his trademark. The entire world would know him by the moustache alone.

  Wilhelm II, Kaiser of the Empire of Blood and Iron.

  “Wo ist das Bier? Fräulein, gib mir mehr Bier!”

  He staggered toward her, stopping as his eyes flicked over her face, her tattered clothes, surprisingly even to the shape beneath them and she hugged the letters a little tighter. A man had never looked at her that way before, not even after so much of her life spent in London’s East End. She found herself utterly paralyzed at the thought.

  “Kein Bier? Kein Problem, Fräulein Vetsera…”

  He reached his hand, tugged a lock of hair between finger and thumb. She pushed it away. He grinned.

  “Wales,” she said. “I wish to speak with the Prince of Wales.”

  “Ah, you prefer English? You are too good for your own people now?”

  “Wales,” she repeated.

  “He’s busy with Bismarck.
That makes him Bizzy.” And he stepped back, swept his eyes over her once again. Smirked. “How did you lure Rudy into your bed? You look like a streetwalker. Even the whore Kaspar has more class than you.”

  “Wales.”

  “Franzi, that old arschloch, thinks you are dead. They all think you are dead, even your sponsor. Maybe you are good, after all, to fool your sponsor?”

  “Wales.”

  “Patron and sponsor in the next room, and here you are with me. Lucky for me. Luckier for you.”

  She swallowed, could not stop her chin from rising.

  “Wales.”

  “What are these?” he asked, fingers rifling across the corners of the envelopes. “Love letters from Rudy? Directions from Uncle Bertie? I bet someone would pay handsomely for these, yes? Is that why you’re here, Schätzchen? Blackmail? If so, then it is a very dangerous game for a little girl like you.”

  “Wales.”

  “Do you have it?” He leaned in, foxy eyes shining. “I will pay you double what he is paying. Triple. I don’t care. Blood and Iron should have it, not Steam. Steam already has her Ghost. They will be unstoppable if they have two. Is that what you want? Maybe that’s what you want since you’re an English whore now.”

  She could smell the beer on his breath and she realized that he was likely more than just a little drunk. That made him dangerous, but the Black Swans were dangerous too and while she wasn’t a Swan, she was convinced she was smarter.

  Sebastien had called them ‘womanly wiles.’

  She took a deep breath, turned her face to his.

  “Triple?”

  His eyes grew wide then but he threw back his head and laughed.

  “Mein Gott, you are bold! I can see why even Wales falls at your feet!”

  She felt a rush of pride. It was dangerous and giddy but if ‘womanly wiles’ was the game she was playing, then she’d best play it to win.

  “Why do you want it, then?” she asked. “It’s just a bauble.”

  He leaned in again, a conspirator.

  “The gold, Schätzchen. Rooms of gold! How better to pay for war machines than with a device that turns even wood into gold! You saw it, yes, at Mayerling? The room, the pedestal, the wardrobe? A fortune that keeps replenishing itself. It is like finding the goose that lays the golden egg.”

  She swallowed, knowing that it had been Ghostlight that had kept the de Lacey family in money for generations.

  “And the power! It is not steam, it is not hydraulics, it is not even the filthy Yankee petrol. It is a window to Valhalla and a doorway to Hel. Harness the two and you have a power source capable of running a hundred Eisenmänner, a thousand U-boats, a hundred-thousand dreadnoughts. It is said to have destroyed the entire shipping fleet of London with only a small show of its power.”

  She remembered it well – the steam, the ice, the mushroom cloud over St. Katharine’s Docks.

  “I thought Gisela would get it for me. She promised but you beat her, you clever thing.”

  Ivy looked at him.

  “Gisela is your Swan?”

  “Gisela is my toy. She amuses me.”

  “With Rudolf dead, she may yet be Empress.”

  He grinned, his moustache arcing up his cheeks like blades.

  “You are far more progressive than your Emperor, Schätzchen. There will never be a woman as Gilded Monarch. Not while Franz Joseph is alive. Perhaps you could kill him next? Not for me, of course. For Gisela. For your country.”

  “If Gisela married you, then you could both rule.”

  His eyes lit up like the wrong end of a firecracker.

  “A unified Germany? You know your politics, Schätzchen, but maybe not your religion. She is married. So am I. We are both Catholics, and Catholics do not divorce.”

  “But they can kill.” Her blood felt like ice in her veins. “Did she kill Rudolf for you?”

  She steeled her nerve, wondering how it would go for her before once again, the game came crashing down on her head.

  “Of course not,” he growled. “Did you?”

  “I’m not telling. So, the German hunting party? Why were they there?”

  “In case she failed. Which she did.” He moved closer still. “You did not.”

  And then his hand was at her breast, plucking at the laces of her filthy red corset. His lips twitched, along with his moustache.

  “Come to my room. Perhaps I will quadruple your fee.”

  She thought of Sebastien, how she had felt his heart beating back in the gorse, how she had been so tempted to kiss him then but had not. And in an instant, she realized that was not a Black Swan. She was not a Mary Vetsera, seducing princes to get want she wanted. This, these ‘womanly wiles’, was not a game she wanted to play even if she could. She was made of different stuff.

  “I will only speak to Wales.”

  She tried to slip away but his hand caught her wrist, yanked her back. She gasped as his fingers grew tight and some of the letters dropped to the floor.

  “This is an old game, Schätzchen, and I have been playing longer than you. Give me the locket or I will break you in half.”

  Suddenly, the adjoining door swung open. A couple stepped through.

  “Willie? Willie, what the deuce?” bellowed the man.

  Her heart leapt at the familiar figure standing in the doorway. He looked like a great, noble bear with bright eyes, saggy jowls and silvering beard.

  Next to him, a woman in black hunt coat and breeches, currently sporting a black eye.

  “Her!” screeched Marie Larisch. “What is that damned Frenchie doing here?”

  “Get out, Uncle!” barked the Kaiser. “She’s promised it to me!”

  “Frenchie? What the deuce are you on about, Marie?” boomed Edward II, Prince of Wales, Crown Prince of the Empire of Steam. “You, Willie! Unhand that little Cymry! And will someone tell me where the hell is Mary Vetsera?”

  ***

  “What the hell are you talking about?” asked Christien. “Evisceration and embalming? Surely people don’t do that anymore.”

  “We are the Habsburgs of the Gilded Roman Empire,” purred Valerie. “Even our bowels are sacred.”

  He rolled his eyes. They were in a carriage on the way to the city centre, pushing through the throngs of mourners clogging the streets. Gisela was sitting across from him, Valerie at his side. Franz had been conspicuously left behind with a team of Hussars to search the new tunnel in the cellar. Naturally, Bastien had not been found and for the first time in his life, Christien felt a glimmer of pride at his brother’s uncanny ability to survive.

  “So, let me see if I understand this,” he said. “All Habsburgs have their hearts removed, embalmed and interred in a special crypt in one of your churches.”

  “The Augustinerkirche, yes,” said Gisela. “It is almost a part of the Hofburg now, it is so old.”

  “And then the organs? Which ones?”

  “I don’t know. The bowels, whatever they consist of.”

  Christien snorted.

  “Cut out in one big armful. How very Ripper-like. And these are in another church?”

  “In the Ducal Crypt, Stephansdom.”

  “Stephansdom?”

  “St. Stephan’s Cathedral.”

  “And the body is in a third church?”

  “Today, in the Court Chapel but tomorrow—”

  “Tomorrow,” said Valerie. “Is the funeral. His body will be transferred to the Church of the Capuchin Friars for permanent interment. It will be impossible to get to him once he is there.”

  “So you see,” Gisela leaned forward. “It must be done tonight.”

  Christien stared at her, then Valerie.

  “You’re both mad.”

  “Your brother can do it, I know it,” said Valerie. “What I saw with the relics—”

  “You didn’t see him in the cellar!” he snapped. “You didn’t see the soot and the black eyes and the dead valet! He can’t control himself, not anymore. I don’t ev
en think Ivy can control him. No one can.”

  He stopped his tongue and looked out the window, forcing the mask on tight. The skies were gray and heavy, the snow little more than black slush pushed against the sides of the streets. Black curtains hung from every window, black banners across every door. It was the very picture of despair.

  “Besides,” he grumbled. “You don’t even know where he is.”

  “We don’t,” said Gisela. “But Sophie does.”

  “Sophie knows,” said Valerie. “She will find him. He can’t escape Sophie.”

  She reached to take his fleshly hand in hers, gave it a squeeze as if from a lover or old friend. Of which she was both.

  “So, you will help us, yes? It is the best gift you could give to our people. You will be allowed to live and my father will be eternally grateful to the house of de Lacey.”

  He stared into her eyes, remembered the taste of her skin on his tongue.

  “Perhaps I’ll get an invitation to your wedding,” he said before turning his face back to the despair and the streets.

  ***

  This child wasn’t Sophie, he knew. This was a ghost, a spirit, an echo brought out by the orb. Yet her hand felt very real in his and he wondered how far the line had blurred since the last horse. Soon, there would be no distinction, and the dead would be more real than the living. It was only right, after all. He couldn’t remember a time when life had fit.

  They had reached a dead end in the tunnels, a wall he could see as if in daylight. It was because of the black horse. Now with eyes as black as soot, blackness was median and light was the blinding. It was pointless to fight. He had tried his entire life but now, as fate set her course before him, he was free to follow. He knew who he was. He knew what he was. For the first time in his life, he knew.

  Little Sophie pulled her hand from his, touched the wall and he understood. It was a wall of bones. Down here, beneath the city, between the churches, likely a repository of ages-old skeletons dug up from all the new construction. The Ringstrasse would be filled with them. And someone had done a fine job of piling them neatly and according to bone type – femurs with the femurs, ribs with ribs, skulls with the skulls, like a puzzle. The decaying flesh on the bones had become human mortar, giving the wall stability and strength. He knew this would not be the first wall of bones under the city. No wonder she brought him here.